


Angels from the Realms of Glory

by 0WritersBlock0



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 17:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0WritersBlock0/pseuds/0WritersBlock0
Summary: Just a simple Christmas story wayyyy too far from Christmas. I may make this a full fic, but I don’t know. Depends on what you guys say (translation: please give me comments). I hope you like it!





	Angels from the Realms of Glory

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: THERE IS IMPLIED AND REFERENCED DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. PLEASE DON’T READ IF YOU DO NOT ENJOY THAT KIND OF STUFF OR IF IT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. 
> 
> (I put domestic violence in the tags too, so if you read this and still read the story, it’s on you.)

Angels from the Realms of Glory

“Aziraphale, please! No more! I can’t take any more of this!” 

A laugh like sleigh bells. “My dear, please. It is not a big enough deal for you to act like I’ve just cursed you to eternal suffering. Playing carols during Christmastime is not torture.”

Demonic grumbling filled the silence between Aziraphale’s soft movements. “Yeah, for you. It’s like nails on a chalkboard for me!” 

“Do not lie to me, Anthony. I know as well as you do that you still speak to Her. She may have sent you down, but She is still your Mother. You still love Her. Now. Will you help me with cooking or no? I do not plan on miracle-ing everything into existence. Doesn’t taste as good if we make it with miracles.” The angel said all this without lifting his eyes from the extensive list of foods he wrote on a sheet of paper in hopes of making them all for Christmas dinner. 

He and Crowley had invited their friends from the Apoca-lack-thereof over for the duration of Christmas Day. Anathema and Newton, Adam and the Youngs, the Them, and even Mr. Shadwell and Madam Tracy. While the Dowling adults weren’t so keen, young Warlock emphatically agreed to come over for the entire day, and then some. His parents had other plans for Christmas, involving parties with Mr. Dowling’s associates and colleagues and several gatherings with Mrs. Dowling’s group of elite lady-friends. 

Of course, Aziraphale’s apartment couldn’t really accommodate every single one of their friends. Only the children could stay overnight, but Aziraphale knew the Young parents wouldn’t agree to letting five children stay with the odd couple while they themselves have to find other lodging. So, the entire operation operated out of Crowley’s large flat. Of course, the two immortal companions left the monochrome apartment to visit the bookshop and such every morning, but they always came home despite any other work or good and evil deeds or errands that had to be done for the next day. 

Aziraphale had all of the rooms in the apartment set up for all their friends to stay at least a night: huge, spacious beds, warm blankets (but not tartan, due to Crowley’s loud protests), comfy pillows, fluffy comforters, and memory foam mattresses for the people who need it. 

Aziraphale had spent almost four hours baking various desserts and treats and pastries for his guests. So many that Crowley had to give a few boxes of baked goods to his neighbors, who stared at the lanky being long enough to even make the demon fidget awkwardly. They hadn’t thought anyone even lived in that apartment, but here the man was, a box of baked goodies in his hands. They quickly accepted the little gift and attempted some small-talk, but the man who introduced himself as Anthony J. Crowley avoided most of their questions and anxiously looked back to the elevator, so they said their goodbyes and closed the door. Clearly, that man was looking to go back to something or someone important. Who were they to hold him back?

Crowley practically sprinted back to his apartment. He may be a demon, but human interaction didn’t particularly draw his interest. At least, not modern humans. Too much judgement. Too much fear. Too much negativity. (Says the demon from Hell.)

He reentered the apartment, the floral aroma of Aziraphale’s freshly picked herbs and the deep, homely scent of cooking garlic lazily wafting around him. He strolled into the kitchen, his spirits once again high in his angel’s presence. The dull thuds of his footsteps signaled Aziraphale to the demon’s arrival. 

The blonde-haired ethereal being stood at the stove, gently stirring something in a pot while immersed in some kind of leather-bound book. Crowley couldn’t make out the title, but it must have been one of Aziraphale’s favorites because he was beaming at the pages as if they’d given him the moon. The warm aroma of baking bread and the spicy scent of roasting herbs filled his nose, and he could barely stand. 

He didn’t indulge in culinary delicacies. He just never cared. He preferred fashion and music and anything else showy that he could present to the world. Food was too private, too complex for him. Too much to think about at once. He could pursue fashion or music without much involvement. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t like him. The angel adored food and working with it. As per his love for food, equal was his ability to cook. Every time Crowley came up to the bookshop after many hours of busy mischief, Aziraphale was ready for him with plates of freshly baked goods and delicate sweets. Truly, Aziraphale had great talent for the culinary arts. Crowley definitely did not, burning anything he tried to make. Hell, he burned soup! Aziraphale laughed for three hours straight, the smug bastard. 

This time, though. Crowley was enamored. He’d never smelled anything more wonderful in his life. So he sat down at the little breakfast table that Aziraphale bought with such excitement, and tried not to lunge for the oven and burn himself in his attempts to try out the food the angel made. 

“Crowley, dear, could you pass me the saffron? Anathema suggested I add it to the eclairs, but I can’t just leave the stove. The choux needs to be closely observed,” came the angel’s sweet request. 

The demon leapt up and tried to search for that stuff in the spice cabinet. “Uh. What does it look like?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “That matters not, my dear. It has the word ‘saffron’ on the label.”

“Uh, okay.” Crowley picked through the different bottles and packets in the cabinet, eventually spotting a small bottle of some kind of red strands, presumably the saffron. He turned the bottle to check the label and brought the stuff to Aziraphale. “Here.”

Warm, steady hands placed the book into Crowley’s rough grasp as they took hold of the spice. The demon nearly crumbled to his knees at the sensation of Aziraphale’s fingers brushing against his own, heavenly power bruising his sensitive demonic skin in a way that made him crave more. 

Crowley felt no shame in admitting he was extremely attracted to Aziraphale’s strength. 

Many times, he witnessed the angel flexing heavenly power in the face of adversity. For example, when the Apoca-let’s-not happened at Tadfield Airbase, Aziraphale showed off his ability with the flaming sword. Crowley felt his heart thumping in his chest and head floating in the clouds — though the fear of destruction by Satan may have also fueled the fear. 

Another time was actually at Tadfield in Jasmine Cottage. Anathema and Newton asked him and Aziraphale to come over for a day so the four adults could talk about things and explain everything to The Them. 

Crowley would never admit it to the angel, but he really did love spending time with those guys. It wasn’t because he hated being around Aziraphale. Quite the opposite. He loved being near him. However, he did need a lot of interaction and communication. Especially since Aziraphale still sometimes went out to do little miracles and couldn’t stay with Crowley all day. 

At one point while having tea, they’d run out of normal snacks like Aziraphale’s cookies and the refreshing cucumber sandwiches that Adam’s mother had made for them, and the group had to scour for whatever else existed in Anathema’s peculiar collection of treats. 

Aziraphale spotted a large container of snacks just waiting on the second shelf in the cupboard and quickly reached up and grabbed it, bringing it down and setting it on the table as if it were filled with styrofoam and not twelve kilograms of food. 

Crowley had watched in ravenous rapture, gazing longingly at the shifting muscles in the angel’s arms as he carefully handled the large plastic box. He really never got to see Aziraphale show off that glorious angelic strength, so he took the time to truly appreciate the moment. Aziraphale noticed the demon’s stare and winked, laughing when Crowley’s face flushed a delightful scarlet in response. 

The kids and Anathema definitely noticed Crowley’s strange behavior, but Newt (in all his obliviousness) didn’t seem to realize anything odd about that interaction. 

Once the two supernatural entities returned home the next day, Aziraphale put his power on display, sweeping Crowley into his arms with a little grunt and carrying the demon inside like he weighed nothing. Crowley had complained the entire way home that he needed to sleep an eternity to get back his energy and that he wouldn’t lift any of the items they brought along. 

In response, Aziraphale carried him into the bookshop like a rag doll before setting the thinner being down on the couch, a delicate kiss pressed upon bitten-red lips. 

Soft, swooning smiles and golden eyes cherished the moments after as Aziraphale returned to the Bentley to retrieve the rest of their belongings. 

Later that day, Crowley watched on in pure fascination (and extreme desire) as Aziraphale lugged around a tall stack of voluminous, ancient tomes, forearm muscles straining at the weight of the tower of paper and leather. The angel barely broke a sweat, even though his coffee table creaked from the weight of the books upon setting them down. 

Crowley had let out a soft croak, aureate eyes dilating in desire, and when Aziraphale’s gaze landed on him, he whined weakly, trying to look away quickly. 

The angel was too quick for him, gliding over and pressing the taller being into the couch with one hand while gripping fiery hair with the other, their lips locked in a deep kiss. Once again, Crowley melted down into the comfy cushions, letting the fair-haired entity manhandle him into the right position for whatever Aziraphale had planned for them next. 

Oh, and the time Crowley had nearly fallen down while dancing with Aziraphale in their apartment. Aziraphale had been leading and spun his partner a tad too much and Crowley nearly tumbled to the ground were it not for Aziraphale yanking him into a hug at the last moment. The demon felt his bones rearranging inside of him just from the sheer force of the hug. A soft snort and wrapped arms around the angel’s neck, and the two locked themselves in a tight embrace, swaying mildly to the music. 

Whispers and laughs and rolling eyes, amusement and adoration and love floating through the apartment like the scent of baking bread or warm pies. Cherry-sweet smiles at the end of summer or spicy cinnamon kisses in the start of winter.

* * *

But back to the story. 

Crowley’s skin burned slightly whenever Aziraphale touched him. He could never admit it to the kindhearted being, but there existed a sting during contact. 

He didn’t mind it, though. It was Aziraphale. The burn was from his beloved friend and partner and darling. He welcomed any feeling the angel could bring to him, pain or pleasure or sadness or joy. 

As Aziraphale slowly started to finish his cooking for the night, the two wound down in the living room, putting on a film on the massive flatscreen TV and curling up with warm woven blankets and soothing lavender tea. This was the best moment of the day for both of them. Aziraphale adored any time spent in comfort and rest with Crowley, and Crowley enjoyed just being near his angel, especially cuddling and falling asleep in the other being’s arms — Aziraphale was the best pillow ever. 

The morn brought warm sunshine and unnecessarily bright light, and the two beings groaned from discomfort and exhaustion. They’d spent the night on the couch rather than returning to their rooms. Aziraphale read in peace while Crowley slept. Yes, he could have moved them with a simple miracle, but the demon looked so peaceful and unhurried while asleep. Aziraphale couldn’t bear to rouse him. 

Both adjusting to their conscious movements, they began the day with their usual routine. Aziraphale put on tea as Crowley showered and cleaned up and whatever the hell he did in his room. They switched, Aziraphale going into his own room as soon as Crowley puttered about the kitchen getting some breakfast prepared. 

As it was a Monday, they drove down to the bookshop. Crowley tried to park safely across the road while Aziraphale set up shop for the day. The demon sauntered in and slithered onto the long chaise couch in the corner of the bookshop, taking in as much sun as possible. Aziraphale strolled around the space, cleaning up the shelves and checking his finances. 

They didn’t get many customers, but as Christmas grew nearer, more people came in with requests and attempts to buy a book. Aziraphale sometimes agreed, selling a few of his less rare books for a manageable price. Other times, he flat out refused, and the prospective customer left with their tail between their legs. 

At about seven that night, a young woman came in. Aziraphale had spent the last few hours decorating the inside of the shop for Christmas. He adorned the space in the normal human style because he didn’t want to startle visitors with the more Heaven-aligned embellishments, which definitely did not include any kind of elaborate tree or holly.

Soft Christmas music rang throughout the shop. Crowley again didn’t like it, but he just accepted the songs for Aziraphale, knowing how upset the angel would feel at not being able to listen to songs about his favorite holiday. (The humans didn’t celebrate the birth of Jesus accurately, but the holiday had so much fun and warmth and joy that Aziraphale couldn’t help but love it just as much as the humans did.)

The door slammed open, causing Crowley to almost jump out of his skin. He’d curled up in the grey woolen blanket Aziraphale draped on him upon discovering the sleeping Serpent and was shocked at the loud noise. He growled in the direction of the door, only for soft whimpering to fill the shop’s walls. 

Aziraphale and Crowley glanced at one another quickly before rushing towards the door. A young woman of olive skin, hazel eyes, and coils of coffee hair stood before them, shaking and shivering as if she’d stood in a snowstorm for hours. Blue lips, chalky skin, tear-filled eyes, she looked like a ghost. Aziraphale gazed on in surprise for a moment before gently moving closer and resting a hand on her shoulder. 

She let out a soft cry at that, startling him enough to yank back his hand. He moved in again, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Another weak whimper, and she leaned into him, dark hair damp from the snow that had been falling outside all day. 

He led her inside to the couch, settling her on the couch with a large mug of hot chocolate and tucking her into the large grey woolen blanket Crowley had slept in only minutes earlier. 

Crowley spoke first, sitting across from her in one of the wooden chairs. “So what’s a kid like you doing out in this cold?”

She sniffled, sipping her drink a few times while rubbing the mug to warm her hands. “I needed to get away from my husband…”

Aziraphale and Crowley shared another look. Aziraphale sat beside her and asked gently, “Is he hurting you, dear?”

She shook her head. And then paused. She nodded her head. And she paused again before shaking her head once more. “I mean. It’s complicated. He’s not physically hurting me, but he’s downright manipulative. I guess I don’t really fit in with his idea of a perfect wife. I mean, I do all the things expected. I clean everything and cook for him and our kids. I comfort them if they’re sad and take care of them if they’re sick. I even go to any events they have and try to support them every way I can. All that while I work as a secretary for a middle manager in a law firm. But…he doesn’t think it’s enough.”

She had raised her voice, exhaustion and exasperation peeking through her voice during the middle of her explanation. And her voice softened once she reached the end of her statement. Her breathing quickened a second, and Aziraphale rubbed her back, letting her lean against him before encouraging her to speak again. 

Crowley gently took her hands into his after setting her mug on the coffee table beside her. He’d donned his glasses before rushing to the door but felt an overwhelming urge to remove them immediately. He looked right into her face, speaking earnestly. “You can ask for help. Tell us the story, and we’ll do our best to help you. We promise. Just trust us.” She smiled weakly at that. He grinned. “Telling us your name would be really good right about now, though.”

She laughed a little, nodding her head. “I’m Lavanya Jackson.”

Aziraphale smiled at her more joyful expression. “What a wonderful name. Very nice to meet you, darling. Now. Tell us, what is the issue between you and your husband. And aren’t you a bit young to be married?”

She shook her head. “I’m twenty-nine years old. My children are two and four years old. My husband is a year older than me. We got married when I was twenty-five years old.” A breathy sigh and distant gaze. Such nostalgia in her voice. “We met because of our parents. Arranged marriage, but also not really. I didn’t have to choose him among others, but we knew each other and dated for a little while before he proposed. Everyone was so ecstatic. My parents are fairly liberal, but they did want me to marry someone of their choice. My husband, Abraham. He has quite liberal parents as well. His mother is from the same Indian state as I am, and his father is from London. They are never as strict as he is.”

She breathed deeply, the shiver in her voice unmistakable. She grasped the mug of hot chocolate and drank some more. “He's an atheist. More severely than his parents are. He hates any idea of religion. He doesn’t even want to teach our kids about it. I was raised Christian. My parents are both quite moderate believers. I am too. I just like that going to church and singing in the choir reminds me of spending holidays with my family. But…I don’t know. My kids need to know that religion exists in the world. They should be able to choose what they follow when they’re older, whether it’s Christianity, atheism, Islam, Buddhism, or whatever else. They deserve that. He hates me talking about it, but they always ask the most adorable questions, and I can’t deny my babies knowledge.”

Crowley hissed in a breath, golden eyes narrowing behind the glasses. She couldn’t see, but he sympathized with her greatly. Being forced to follow one thing while not being happy. He knew how that felt. Even Aziraphale stiffened at her explanation. Living one way and being told it’s wrong just felt so familiar to him. Both clenched their words behind sweet smiles and gentle looks. They had to keep calm for her sake. 

She sniffled. “I heard from the other moms in my apartment that there’s a shop on this road where the owner is a bit of a sour stickler for selling his books but is really kind to people seeking help. I wanted to come here so many times but never had the chance. I didn’t think I’d ever come here.”

A deep, quaking breath and slowly warming hands rubbing against red eyes. “And I come home today after work to something amazing. My kids are off with their Nana, and my husband had made dinner for us and planned wonderful activities tonight because he knows how stressed I am.” She broke off to burst into soft sobs and heartbroken whimpers. 

Aziraphale hugs her lovingly, asking to pet her hair and doing so immediately when she pleaded pathetically. “Oh, my dear, it’s alright. You’re here now. You can tell us. No harm will come to you. By God’s name, we will help you. We will protect you. You’re safe with us.”

She settled again, calming down slowly. Words still wobbly from her crying, she continued, “He had wine and a beautiful dinner and filled our room with roses and scented candles and so many amazing things. But…he got too heavy on the wine. I was already frustrated from the day’s work because two people kept handing me their incomplete work, and the boss yelled at me for it. I couldn’t handle more frustration. I snapped at him to ‘Put away the wine, for God’s sake!’ He raged at me for saying that. I didn’t know what to do. We argued. I tried to placate him. Keep him docile. He’s pretty calm when drunk. But I guess his own anger built up too, and he started throwing things. My heart broke when he launched my favorite angel statue at me. I sprinted out of there.”

Shivering like the cold still gripped her heart, she clutched the blanket and mug closer to her and gazed at the two men in front of her. “I had no idea where to go, so I came here. Please, I just…”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who wore a thoughtful expression and a serious frown. “Love,” the taller man started. “Does he do this regularly? Hit you? Throw things? Yell and scream?”

Lavanya watched with soulful eyes, tears threatening to spill over the edge. Wine-stained lips quivered, but dared not open. Pale fingers that had returned to a normal shade now flushed white with pressure. Lean body weak from stress and fatigue sat taut as a bowstring. Crowley had his answer. 

Aziraphale looked her deeply in the eyes, heavenly smile grazing his lips. “I promise you now, my dear: Crowley and I will do whatever it takes to keep you and your children safe from him. I swear it. Understood?”

She could sense the power in this small, pudgy man without even seeing him in a fight. She could hear the soldier in his voice and see the fighter in his eyes. She could even feel the godly righteousness in his presence, all light and love and glory and joy and _ influence. _So, because she sensed all of these, she nodded. “Okay. I understand.”

He nodded with finality and stood, guiding his husband to another corner of the shop so that they still stood in her line of sight but she couldn’t hear their conversation easily. 

Lavanya gazed at their interaction with sunlight slowly filling her soul. She smiled with just the corners of her lips, but it reached her eyes anyways.

* * *

They were glowing. 

Most people glowed. 

Lavanya could see the glowing whenever she wanted. She couldn’t control it, but it was nice. Most people were just shades of grey or whatever color they felt. Lavanya’s mom was always light canary yellow around her and her kids. Her dad was always a deep, warm orange. Her kids were always white, yellow, blue, red, green, or purple. And the kids’ colors were always intense. 

Her husband…he was always red. Sometimes starfish pink or dim yellow or spring green or ocean blue. But usually crimson red. His mother was usually soft white or yellow. His father was always bright orange with hints of pink and yellow. 

These guys were weird. They had two colors. One of the colors encircled their heart. The guy in black had a pure black with specks of white and grey. The guy in cream had a pure white with specks of black and grey. And the second color surrounded the rest of their body. The second color fluctuated between magenta and gold when she first saw them. As she talked with them, the magenta grew more intense, and the gold disappeared. But after her story, only red and blue existed around both of them, but in different amounts. The guy in black had more blue and the guy in white had more red. 

Throughout the men’s private conversation, the colors changed more. They started red and blue and they eventually switched to gold and red and then finished with red and white and gold. 

They returned to her, both their faces bright, not with colors, but with determination. The man in white opened his mouth to speak, but she held her hand up. Lavanya smirked as cockily as she could manage with her broken heart, “Telling me your names would be really good right about now, though.”

The man in white burst into laughter, and the man in black rolled his eyes, a barely-controlled grin lighting up his face. “Fair enough. I’m Anthony J. Crowley. This is my husband Azra Zachariah Fell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled a bit bigger, her lips curving slightly more upward. “Same to you.”

Azra sat beside her again and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. “Now. We have a plan of action, but we want to confirm it with you first.”

She nodded, swiping away a few tears from her cheeks. “Go ahead.”

Anthony moved closer, clasping his hands and resting both knobby elbows on his knees. “First, we want to get your items packed. We’ll come help and protect you when you’re packing. Just the necessities. Anything else can be handled later. Next, we want you to inform your family of the change and mistreatment. You said your kids are with their Nana? Let them stay there for the night, but make sure your family knows. Next, we’ll help you move into the apartment above the shop.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Azra put his hand up. “We have no objections. I don’t live there. I leave it purely if we have cases of people needing a safe residence if they can’t live anywhere else. No one is living there now. Anthony and I live in our own apartment ten minutes away.”

She nodded and sighed in resignation, motioning for them to continue. Anthony smiled. Though, it looked a bit odd on his face. “Once you move in, we’ll help you pack the kids’ stuff. We’ll bring the kids here on the way back from your apartment. Once all of that is settled, we’ll start working with a lawyer to get your case into the police station and then into court. I’m sure there are many nonprofit organizations that can also help us work through this by providing lawyers and counseling. And then, we’ll get you to court and try to make sure you get at least half of all possessions and child support. When we win — and I do mean _when_, not _if — _we’ll find you a cheap and wonderful apartment and help you move in. We’ll work you through this. I promise.”

A long pause. Lavanya’s tears spilled over, and she burst into sobs, allowing the older men to carefully hug her and console her to the best of their ability. She simpered and sniffled and let them cajole her into calmness again, earthy eyes glassy and hopeful. “You guys are a godsend. I don’t know what you are, but God definitely brought you both into my life as a blessing. Thank you so much.” Hands pressed together like in prayer, she bowed her head, droplets still sliding down her cheeks. They comforted her a little longer before she calmed down on her own. 

Soft whimpers slid into silence, during which Lavanya noticed the music playing in the background. She smiled wetly. “This was my favorite Christmas song. My church choir always sang this first during congregation. I wasn’t the best, but they always made me sing the solos. I thought it was a joke at first, making fun of me because I’m not a good singer. And then I realized, after they explained it to me, it was because they liked my singing for how much feeling I put into it. They all sang wonderfully, but they didn’t _ feel _ the music and the love in it as intensely as I did.” She listened harder and hummed along, singing louder with each passing second. 

Her voice buzzed through the shop sweetly, ringing in Aziraphale and Crowley’s ears. No, she wasn’t a perfect singer. She was nowhere near the level of the recording playing alongside her singing. But with each word of the song, they could feel her devotion. They could feel the loving eyes of God gaze down at them from Her throne above everything. They could feel this girl’s heart and love and goodness just in the gentle spiritual vibration caused by her singing.

She smiled at the end of the song, sitting back again and curling into the blankets. “Angels from the Realms of Glory.” Her eyes observed them closely, flashing over their faces and appearances. “That’s what you two are, honestly. Angels from the realms of glory. God gave me your presence. I think I’ll be okay.” She shook her head, turning to sigh wistfully at the tall Christmas tree standing near the window. “I know I’ll be okay.”

She set her empty mug down on the coffee table and stood up, rolling her shoulders and stretching her arms out. Dark, previously red eyes shined with determination, and fatigue-worn smiles gleamed with hope. “I dunno what you both are waiting for, but I think we’d best head out before the storm gets any worse. I doubt even angels could fly in this weather.”

Crowley chuckled, standing up and patting her shoulder with a heavy, nimble hand. “You’d be surprised, my friend. You’d be very surprised.”

She paused a moment. “Forgot to ask. What does the J stand for in Anthony J. Crowley?”

The man snickered with his husband. “It’s just a J, really.”

Azra’s eyes widened, and he huffed. “And I’m not a sour stickler! Absolutely not! I’ve been so kind! Crowley, stop laughing, dearest, or I’ll make sure you don’t leave this bookshop without cleaning every single surface with a toothbrush.” 

Lavanya laughed loudly, leaning against Anthony for support. “This is the best worst Christmas Eve ever!”

Anthony grinned. “Say that ten times fast!”

**Author's Note:**

> And if you complain in the comments about a lack of trigger warnings for domestic violence after finishing the story and reading until here, I will GLADLY go off on you.


End file.
